Intolerable Ludicrous Incredible
by gwenweybourne
Summary: Sherlock must resolve an intolerable situation. John is driving him to distraction, the Work is suffering, and there is only one solution to be had. Some minor SiB spoilers.
1. Intolerable

**A/N:** My first Sherlock fic. Please be gentle. New to the fandom, but it has swallowed me whole and I have no regrets. I'm ever fascinated by virginal!Sherlock, who has managed to separate himself from matters of the flesh for most of his life. Until John comes along and throws everything into chaos.

_Sherlock_

Intolerable. Sherlock lay back on the sofa, fingers steepled under his chin. Thinking about the situation. It had gone through many stages and Sherlock had catalogued them all: intriguing, perplexing, vexing, troubling, _profoundly_ troubling, and now had firmly settled into the category of intolerable. Absolutely intolerable. Something had to be done. And quickly.

The cause of the problem and, thus, situation, was simple to determine: Dr. John H. Watson. The root had been easy to identify. The solution was a more evasive quarry, however. Well, that wasn't exactly true: there was one very obvious solution, but Sherlock had rejected it outright as being even more intolerable than the problem itself. Sending John away was not even remotely an option.

Simply put: John was driving Sherlock to distraction in a most upsetting way. Even the time spent analyzing the problem was a distraction in itself. He tried his best to put it aside for those insufferable times between cases when he got so very bored.

He hadn't been bored lately, even though it had been a whole week since their last case. He suspected John had noticed this change in behaviour, but was probably relieved that Sherlock wasn't shooting more holes in the walls, tearing the flat apart in search of cigarettes, and generally throwing a strop every ten minutes. No, this problem required very careful contemplation, starting with determining how and when it had presented itself. The situation, so to speak.

He had figured that out. The women. Those damnable nice, _boring_ women that John had been dating. The idea that John would prefer their company over his was incomprehensible at first. In the beginning, Sherlock had simply invented ways to insert himself into the situation so John could see sense. And then John had blurted out how Sherlock's presence was preventing him from _getting off_, and then, _well_.

He should have realized that sooner. Contrary to somewhat popular belief, he wasn't a robot or an alien. He was a human man and sexual urges were written into his biological makeup just like everyone else. However, the difference between him and everyone else was that he had deemed those urges irrelevant a long time ago. Sexual desire and the pursuit of sexual conquest struck Sherlock as a way for boring people to pass the time. The incredible, mind-boggling amounts of idle time they seemed to have because their puny brains couldn't keep them adequately occupied. So they resorted to rubbing body parts against other body parts for fun. He didn't understand it at all.

He'd never understood it. Even in the hormonal throes of adolescence it had been a puzzle to him. He'd experienced the irritatingly distracting stirrings and desires shared by his peers, but his lack of social prowess made the pursuing of those urges basically impossible. He had no acceptable way of communicating his desires to the very, very few people who piqued his interest in that way. And the very few, tentative attempts he had made had been soundly rebuffed. Humiliatingly so. And the few who had managed to break past a few layers of his intellectual oblivion to make their interest known to him (the Molly Hoopers of the world) were people who did not interest him in the slightest. He'd calculated the odds of finding a person who equally reciprocated his desires and the results were definitely not in his favour. He'd decided then and there to put it all aside. He was able to take care of his own needs in times where even the most absorbing of school assignments and outside projects refused to absorb his fevered thoughts. And as he navigated his way through the rest of those abhorrent teenage years, he found those moments decreasing in frequency until he was able to master them altogether. And so it had been for many years. Sex was boring and people who desired it were boring, too.

But it appeared that John desired sex and John was certainly not boring. That's the last thing he was. It also perturbed Sherlock that someone else might be able to provide something for John that he could not. Because that wasn't true. He could. He'd just never wanted to. With anyone.

Until now. Because he'd begun entertaining unpleasant thoughts of John touching those women. Sarah, Jeannette, Spotty, and Nose. Their hands and mouths touching John. _His_ John. Revolting. And then thoughts of John touching them. No. That wouldn't do. He thought of the times John had touched him, whether it was their shoulders touching in the darkened back seat of a cab, fingers brushing when John passed him a cup of tea, or the time he had taken John's face between his hands and implored him to remember the order and nature of the ciphers he'd seen spray-painted on the wall. Each contact had provided a flush of warmth he wasn't used to. One that was unique to John. Of course, there were virtually no other people who voluntarily touched Sherlock. He received more physical contact from corpses and handshakes with strangers than he did with the people in his everyday life, Mycroft included. _Especially_ Mycroft.

Except for John. John didn't mind touching Sherlock. In fact he seemed to do it more than was necessary, but Sherlock assumed perhaps that was what friends and flatmates were supposed to do. He found himself wanting more of it, the same way he secretly desired John's praise and approval.

It was all incredibly distracting. And now it was starting to impact the Work and that was unacceptable. The Work was everything and everything served the Work. And while he'd made the decision to stop considering sexual matters, he certainly was no naïf. He'd researched extensively to obtain knowledge to aid in his deductions. Sex was a driving force of human behaviour, so it was key that he attempt to understand it. He knew what was supposed to go where and he could reel off a near endless list of fetishes and kinks and subcultures. He knew the difference between courting and stalking, a bear and a cougar, top and power bottom, the apparent necessity of sending flowers, cards, and candy, waiting three days to call, and the peak times of day to find recreational fucking in Hampstead Heath.

But where he himself was concerned, Sherlock regarded his body as a mobile device to house his brain. And his brain was the computer that did the Work. Maintaining the house kept his computer at optimal function, so he fed it (not as often as John would like), rested it (ditto), exercised it, cleaned it, and kept it properly kitted out (perhaps one of his few vain indulgences, but in his experience, people were more likely to defer to a confident-sounding man in well-tailored clothing). But nothing more than that. Yes, the brain controlled the sexual pleasure responses, but they were not key to existence. They were expendable. Deletable. Or so he'd thought. Prior to this moment, he'd been fairly grateful to have spared himself from the circus of the human sex drive. Watching people making idiots of themselves in hopes of getting off or falling in love or both. It was everywhere: written into every movie plot, television show, advert, and pop song. Everything was sex. Sherlock prided himself on being above it all.

But now that was all going to hell and it had become intolerable. His thoughts had begun to drift during moments when they should be maintaining their laser-like intensity. He caught himself staring at John, watching his mouth, wondering what it tasted like. What he looked like under those ridiculous jumpers. Which muscles in his kind, compassionate face would be triggered when he achieved climax? What combination of stimuli would be required to bring him to such a state? Data … there was so much data to be collected. Data that was non-essential to the Work, but sod the Work … he wanted … oh bloody _hell_.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and covered his eyes, fingers twisting into his hair. He shifted his weight and blinked a little, lowering his hands and looking down. For fuck's sake … he was almost fully erect. Again. His traitorous body failing him again. How dreadfully inconvenient and embarrassing. He was better than this.

"Intolerable," he muttered, shifting again to try to ease some pressure off his member. "Simply intolerable." He tried to focus his thoughts and think about something else … anything else except John Watson.

Naked.

Moaning Sherlock's name.

Working his roughened hands over Sherlock's body with surgical precision.

This wasn't working. At all.

He raised his head and listened. The flat was empty. John was at work — probably — Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how much time had elapsed and he didn't remember John's departure at all. Mrs. Hudson must be at the shops. He was alone. He could retire to his bedroom for additional privacy, but the thought of the journey there wearied him. He brushed light fingertips over the bulge in his trousers and shivered. He could … it had been years, but he was becoming increasingly desperate.

Ashamed that it had come to this, he popped the button on his trousers and slowly lowered the zip. He had his hand half into his pants when he heard front door open, causing him to jump.

Feet pounding up the stairs. _John. With approximately 3.4 kilograms of groceries_.

"Sherlock! Sorry I'm late. Tesco was a bloody nightmare. But it only took me five tries with the chip and PIN machine this time. Small victories, right? Sherlock?"

By the time John entered the sitting room, Sherlock was zipped up and curled up on the sofa, with his back to John, feigning sleep, which was difficult because his breathing was hardly at the right rate to really pull it off properly.

But John, silly sod, was as oblivious as usual. "Ah. Rest'll do you good," he whispered. "I'll start tea, then."

John moved quietly out of the room and Sherlock's eyes flew open. Of course!

John was a caretaker. It was his nature. It was not only his profession, but it showed in his personal life as well. He was happiest when he was taking care of Sherlock. He had some ridiculous notion that this was the only area in which he was truly useful, which couldn't be farther from the truth. Sherlock didn't need a nanny or a housekeeper. He needed John. However, this misconception might be useful in resolving his situation. He smirked in self satisfaction.

Sherlock might be lacking in area of recognizing social cues, but it was different with John and he knew he'd received enough signs and cues to know that John would not be entirely opposed to the idea of expanding their relationship into the sexual arena. He just needed some convincing. The experience with Irene Adler had been telling enough. While Sherlock had found her _deeply_ interesting, the fact remained that she was no longer immediately available to collect further data on the subject. And John had been jealous. Sherlock had tested him on that point. He could have changed the text ringtone away from her breathy moan to the standard alert (could he make John emit a sound similar to that? No … focus!), but he didn't. He wanted to know how many times it would have to go off before John had a visible reaction. Fifty-seven times, apparently. He applauded the doctor's restraint, but the overall conclusion was the one he'd hoped for: Irene's suggestive attentions had bothered John.

And if Sherlock couched the situation in terms of his distress over his distraction from the Work — which was essentially the truth — John would want to help him. He had to. Otherwise Sherlock had to make the disturbing realization that he did not know what he was going to do. And also there was the issue of John and his needs and Spotty and Nose. If Sherlock could meet those needs then John would be happy (oh, how he liked it when John was happy and he smiled and his eyes crinkled and … focus!) and would likely stop making dinner reservations he couldn't really afford and bringing boring people to Baker Street to inflict their tedium on Sherlock, all in the hopes of a roll in the hay and unrealistic expectations of some kind of storybook romance resulting in a wedding and a litter of sprogs who would suck the life out of his vibrant, sweet John and render him brittle and gray and _boring_, and, worst of all, take him away from the Work and thus, Sherlock. No, it had to stop. Something had to be done.

He resolved that he would broach the subject tonight. After tea. Almost getting caught masturbating on the sofa was the final straw.


	2. Ludicrous

_John_

Ludicrous. It was simply ludicrous. He should have seen it coming. He had, in a way, but things had been nicely calm (warning sign number one) and he had just wanted to enjoy it for a little while. Even though they were between cases, Sherlock had been quiet and contemplative, spending long hours on the sofa, thinking so hard that he was practically grinding his teeth. John had noted the hard set of his jaw and the palpable tension in Sherlock's long, lean body, but any queries he'd made had been quickly shot down. Rather than take offence, John had simply left him to it. He'd learned there was no sense in trying to barge in on Sherlock's process. When it was time for him to know, he would know.

He had to keep reminding Mycroft of this fact. The elder Holmes had also noted Sherlock's unusual between-case behaviour and he would not stand for it much longer. John had already been spirited away twice by the ever-mysterious Anthea so Mycroft could question him about the goings-on at Baker Street. The fact that Sherlock hadn't even bothered deducing that John had taken these "trips" was all the more concerning.

Yet when he was home, Sherlock usually managed to rouse himself from his ruminations and he was present and attentive. Almost overly so. John felt the force of his flatmate's gaze as they shared a meal (he was eating, at least, that was something, and he'd been sleeping when John had come home from work that evening) or as he puttered about the kitchen. Speaking of which, the kitchen had been alarmingly free of terrifying and stomach-churning experiments. No new body parts had materialized in the fridge, though the bag of thumbs was doing odd things in the crisper. John worried it was on the verge of forming its own system of government, but didn't want to bother Sherlock about it when there were clearly bigger issues at hand.

Tonight he'd done the shopping, come home, and found Sherlock napping on the sofa and the image had been quite endearing. The way Sherlock was forced to fold up his coltish legs in order for the sofa to accommodate his towering frame. The ridges of his spine were clearly visible through his shirt and John had almost been overcome by the urge to map it with his fingers before covering Sherlock with a blanket. He'd been having more thoughts like those lately and hadn't quite known what to do with them. The incidents with Irene Adler had been eye-opening, to say the least. To see another person affect Sherlock so profoundly had bothered him a little and he'd chastised himself for feeling petty and jealous and arrogant enough to think that he was somehow special. He was just an ordinary bloke, after all, and Sherlock's continued fascination with him was the biggest mystery of all, though according to Sherlock it was the least mysterious thing in the world. And besides, he had no claim over the man. He could be interested in whomever he wished, just as John was doing his best to get on with it in the dating world.

But the thought that someone like Irene existed — someone who could upset their delicate ecosystem in such a way. It made him think about what exactly he was doing at Baker Street.

And apparently Sherlock had been thinking along the same lines.

Sherlock had been very quiet at tea, not even reading the paper or checking his phone every two minutes. He'd eaten his food with a grim determination.

"Enjoying your last meal?" John had tried for a light joke.

Sherlock glared sharply at him. "Hmmm?"

"Last meal. Meaning you look like you're about to be marched off to … oh, never mind …"

"Hmmm."

John had done the washing-up, as usual, and then had gone to his room for a short nap as he was knackered after a particularly vexing day at work. About an hour later he'd been roused by the creak of footsteps on the stairs and a light knock at the door. "John?"

Sherlock. Sherlock never visited his room. It was an unspoken agreement between them that their rooms were more or less Baker Street colonies. They flew under the flag, but were to be considered separate dominions.

That's when things became ludicrous. Sherlock had opened the door and stood stiffly in the doorway, clearing his throat and scratching the back of his neck — _god, was he actually nervous? _— before shoving his hands in his pockets. And then he spoke.

He spoke for a long time. And in the end what it boiled down to was a proposition. Sherlock "I'm married to my work" Holmes was sexually frustrated and wanted John to help him with it so his work would not suffer any further. And no one else — only John would do. Which was meant to be flattering and it was, but also deeply troubling. And apparently this would serve John's interests, as well.

"I know this might be new to you in many ways," Sherlock had said in his closing statement. "But I assure you that it will be a most mutually beneficial arrangement. And perhaps we can conduct a short experiment to ensure that the chemistry is sound, though I have already deduced that it will be."

"Chemistry?" John repeated dully, still trying to take in all his flatmate had said. _I need to shag you or my life's work will be ruined._

"Yes, of course. Actual contact is the most efficient way to judge physical compatibility."

"Yes, of course, yes," John repeated. "Um, all right, then. What, you want me to snog you, is that it?"

"I think that's an ideal litmus test, so to speak. I shall give you some time to think about my proposition and I will return in fifteen minutes for your decision."

John had nodded, still flabbergasted. "Yes, yes. All right. Fifteen minutes."

Sherlock had nodded back, then turned to leave, but then he paused in the doorway and his face softened. Something in his eyes went soft, too, and John felt it all the way to his knees.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"I don't mean to corner you. If this is something you really don't want to pursue, then I will find another way to bring the Work back to its usual impeccable standard. I am a genius, after all."

John had smiled, just a little, and this reaction made Sherlock's eyes shine all the more.

"I … I need you to want this as much as I do," said Sherlock. "Or at least something resembling that. If you don't, then I can't pursue it, either."

John had nodded. "All right, Sherlock. See you in fifteen minutes."

"Yes, right." He'd pressed his lips together and taken his hands out of his pockets before leaving. John caught only a quick glimpse before his flatmate left his range of vision, but he was certain that Sherlock's hands had been shaking. The stairs creaked as his friend went back downstairs.

John made his decision before the last step squeaked under Sherlock's weight.

He made his decision, then took the fifteen minutes to think about how and why he'd made it so quickly. It was his gut that had guided him. But his brain was screaming at him that this was ludicrous.

Well, it was. Absolutely. But he finally had to acknowledge his attraction to Sherlock, no matter how confusing it was. John had had some experience with men. Medical school. The army. Where close proximity and the bonds of friendship had crossed some lines. He had enjoyed it and didn't regret it, but it wasn't something he'd ever thought to actively pursue. It wasn't like how he'd observed things while growing up with Harry, how she'd just known for almost all her life that she preferred those of her own sex. John had mainly identified as straight, but he'd learned along the way that there were always exceptions to any rule.

Sherlock was exceptional in every way possible. And besides, for a long time he hadn't thought of Sherlock as a man or a woman or anything except _Sherlock_. He was unique. He was unlike anyone John had ever known. He would go as far to boldly state that Sherlock Holmes was unlike anyone else in the entire world. He was special. Beautifully so. And it amazed him constantly that so few others truly saw it.

Not to mention that when he wasn't driving John absolutely barmy, he was incredibly attractive, was occasionally able to be charming, and they had formed a deep, indescribable bond quickly and effortlessly. Something which, as he was reminded by virtually everyone around them, was unheard of with Holmes. It had gotten to the point where John had felt twinges of jealousy when he suspected someone else was drawing close in that way.

Sherlock hadn't asked very much of John at all. Sure, yes, there were the constant requests for milk and biscuits and "Come to this place with me, forget about sleeping for the next three days, and, by the way, we might die in a hail of bullets," but that was different than this.

All those things, Sherlock could do on his own. He'd done them long before he'd met John and should they come to part ways, god forbid, he would do them after. But this was the only thing Sherlock had asked of John that he was unable to do himself. This wasn't about having a good wank to relieve tension. Sherlock wanted John. All of him. And he was entirely dependent on John to fulfil this request and that was strangely moving to the doctor. Not to mention the very foreign and heady feeling of being desired so completely. No one had ever wanted him that much before. He at least owed his flatmate a chance to test his theory.

When Sherlock returned, he appeared more collected than before. He opened his mouth to ask John for his decision, but John interrupted him by smiling softly and patting the spot next to him on the bed, indicating that Sherlock should join him. He was nearly blinded by Sherlock's smile as the other man eagerly clambered onto the bed with a charming, almost puppy-like lack of grace. He settled next to John, lying on his side to face the doctor.

"So," John said, a little awkwardly. "You've never —"

"No."

"Not even —"

"No."

"But you know —"

Sherlock nodded impatiently, letting out a huff of breath. "_Honestly_, John. I know about 'the birds and the bees.' I'm not entirely clueless about how this works. I've just never …"

"Field tested."

"Precisely."

"You need to let me guide this. I need that. Will you let me do that?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

Sherlock smirked very slightly and blinked slowly, the Sherlockian version of bedroom eyes and the effect was transfixing. "I am at your mercy, doctor."

_Oh god._

"Right. Well, let's give it a go, then …" _Well, that was suave, Johnny boy. Good one. Christ, you're hopeless. Is it any wonder you aren't exactly slaying the ladies?_

Shrugging off such negative thoughts, John leaned in and brushed his fingertips over the smooth, pale length of Sherlock's neck before wrapping his fingers around the nape, cradling the back of Sherlock's head in his palm, the other man's hair softly tickling his skin in an unexpectedly pleasurable way. Well, maybe it wasn't that unexpected. If John was honest with himself, he would admit that more than a few times he'd caught himself wanting to stroke his hand over Sherlock's dark, glossy curls.

Sherlock's expression was calm and placid and clearly he was staying still and quiet only out of courtesy to John's sense of comfort. Even though John was fully clothed, he felt naked and utterly exposed because he was certain he was giving off a thousand clues to his friend already. His pulse rate had quickened and he knew his pupils must be dilated and his breath was coming faster. And of course he knew that Sherlock was noting, cataloguing, and analyzing all of these symptoms as they occurred.

_All right, best get to it, then_, he thought ruefully. Everything would change after this moment. Maybe Sherlock was able to delete information from his so-called "hard drive," but John had no such ability and what he was about to know could not be unknown. In addition to the fact that this was to be Sherlock's first real kiss and John didn't want to be a disappointment.

He leaned in even more and slowly and tentatively pressed his lips to Sherlock's, fitting Sherlock's upper lip slightly between his own. Sherlock remained still for a beat and John swore he could hear the _clickwhirrrbuzz_ of the experience being computed before a resulting response was concluded and Sherlock's lips pursed slightly to return the kiss, almost mimicking John's movement. He tasted like peppermint. _He brushed his teeth beforehand just in case. Can't decide if that's arrogant or adorable. Glad I didn't pick up a curry for supper._

John adjusted the angle of his head and kissed Sherlock again, applying more pressure this time. Soft. Sherlock's mouth was so soft and pliant under his own, which was an interesting contrast for a man who was made up of hard angles and sharp thoughts. But then again, John had witnessed more than a few glimpses of the softness underneath the hard shell and being able to have a physical experience with it was very enjoyable. Though he could feel a slight tension there, meaning Sherlock was still thinking more than feeling. The normal run of things for him, but that wasn't quite the point of this so-called experiment, was it?

He shifted again, embracing Sherlock's full lower lip between his own, sucking it very gently and then teasing it with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock jumped in his embrace just a fraction — he clearly hadn't been expecting that kind of contact and John always felt a thrill when he could surprise his friend. It was such an incredibly rare occasion …

Not one to shy away from something new, he felt the tip of Sherlock's tongue hesitantly tasting him and John took the opportunity to coax his mouth open a little more and then … _oh_. He dreamily shifted into autopilot because now it was easy — all warm and wet and soft and delicious. He teased Sherlock's tongue, tasted and nibbled at his lips, and took the kiss farther and deeper, claiming Sherlock's mouth again and again. It was glorious.

And then he heard a very small sound that pulled him back. _Oh god, I'm snogging him senseless and I don't even know if he's enjoying it. Pay attention, you git. This isn't all about you._

The sound was a tiny whimper, surely not a voluntary sound because Sherlock Holmes certainly did not intentionally whimper (unless he was trying to wheedle his way onto someone's property). John stroked his fingers over Sherlock's neck again and was astonished to feel the other man's pulse racing under his touch. Sensing John's slight distraction, the next noise Sherlock made was one of mild annoyance and he pushed in closer, demanding that the kiss be resumed at its previous pace.

_Well, case closed. He likes this. I wonder what else he likes?_

Sherlock was pulling closer, his long fingers twisting into John's jumper as if reaching for something, but not knowing exactly what he wanted. John broke the kiss and Sherlock gasped, his eyes flying open and he was dumbstruck, his lips (just oh-so-slightly swollen and wet and, frankly, _gorgeous_ — John took a mental picture of Sherlock with a well-kissed mouth) moving in silence until he finally forced a word out, his tone steeped in indignation: _"John!"_

John smiled and leaned in to kiss Sherlock's neck, alternating between gentle teasing and sucking — he had a sudden urge to mark Sherlock, to mar that pristine, pale flesh. Sherlock shuddered and his fit of pique faded. "… _oh_."

A kiss on the mouth. That's all it was supposed to be, but John was getting hungrier. He wanted more. And Sherlock so far seemed willing to go along with it. Yes, Sherlock had been the one to make the proposition, but the fact remained that he was inexperienced and unused to these feelings and John didn't want to overwhelm him. For someone who valued control and clarity of thought above all, the fogginess of sexual arousal and the oblivion of climax could be somewhat frightening. It was like a drug, and not the kind that Sherlock had a taste for. John's instinct to protect Sherlock certainly wasn't new, but the feel of taking the lead definitely was.

Still lavishing attention on Sherlock's neck, John reached down and gently pried Sherlock's fingers from their iron grip on his jumper, holding that hand for a moment, then raising it so he could press a tender kiss to the palm, but quickly returning to kiss Sherlock's lips again when the other man started to make breathless comments regarding the number of nerve endings to be found in a square centimetre of the human palm. With Sherlock's arm out of the way, John was free to reach down and carefully pluck open the first couple of buttons on Sherlock's shirt. He then paused for a moment, waiting to see if he would be rebuffed, but Sherlock made an impatient _go on, then!_ noise and continued kissing John languorously, like a cat indulging in a saucer of cream. The hand removed from the jumper found a new place to settle — in John's hair, his spidery fingers petting the sandy blond strands and spanning his skull. For a split second John recalled the skull on the mantel and the thought was more than a little disturbing, so he put it aside and focused on opening the other man's shirt. Not much of a challenge at all, considering how tight-fitting Sherlock liked his shirts — the groaning buttons popped happily through their holes, letting the fabric part. And by then Sherlock was giving him something of a scalp massage with those marvellous fingers and oh, that was rather lovely.

John finally eased open the final button, allowing the shirt to fall completely open. He wanted to look. He'd wanted to look since the day at the palace when Mycroft, fed up with Sherlock's refusal to wear anything but a bedsheet that made him look like an imperious Roman emperor, stepped on the hem as Sherlock attempted to storm out and found himself nearly naked if not for his quick reflexes, catching the end of the sheet to cover himself before properly flashing all present company. John had stared at his back as Sherlock had a very quiet and collected angry meltdown at the gall of his older brother. John had watched the tight set of his stance and the beautiful symmetry of his shoulder blades and the lean muscles working under alabaster skin and it finally occurred to John what an utterly exquisite creature Sherlock was — in every sense of the word. He had been startled by the thought, immediately filing it away for later.

Yes, he wanted to look, but was still deeply engaged in a passionate kiss with Sherlock, who had picked up the practice with unsurprising speed and ability and he was making little hungry sounds in the back of his throat that were decidedly un-Sherlock-like and John wanted to hear more of them, so he laid his hand on Sherlock's chest, fingertips grazing over sharp clavicles, then moving down. He'd half expected it to feel like touching a marble statue: cold and smooth, but no, quite the opposite. Sherlock quivered at the touch and John just felt warmth. Warmth and the finest dusting of hair tickling his palm and he stroked Sherlock's chest so slowly and let his hand settle over the other man's heart, which was thumping ferociously. John smiled into the kiss. So warm. So human. So alive. He almost wanted anyone who'd ever called his friend a robot/alien/freak to experience Sherlock this way.

Or maybe not. No. The opposite, in fact. He wanted this to be his and his alone. Another startling thought. But a powerful one.

He felt even softer skin under his palm — a nipple, already beginning to harden from the contact. John surrounded it with his thumb and forefinger and pinched it gently at the same time softly biting Sherlock's full lower lip between his teeth and was rewarded with a quiet, gasping cry of pleasure. John smiled and kissed Sherlock tenderly before pushing the other man fully onto his back. Sherlock tried to look up, but John nudged his head under Sherlock's chin, effectively forcing his head back onto the pillow as he kissed down the length of his throat.

"Is this all right?" John murmured between kisses, making his way down to Sherlock's bared chest.

A barely audible reply. "Yes."

"I'll stop at any time if you want me to. Just say the word. All right?"

A whisper with a sharp edge of need. "Yes."

John finally got a good look and was stirred by the sight of Sherlock's exposed torso that seemed to go on for miles. He gently kissed the other man's sternum and his hand followed, stroking and feeling as his mouth explored. Sherlock's breath was coming in short, urgent gasps and when John closed his lips around a nipple and sucked, he felt Sherlock arch up, almost bucking against him with a little cry, followed by a moan as John played with the other, teasing and flicking it into hardness.

Sherlock's fingers clutched at the blanket and he whimpered softly. "John …"

John continued his exploration, tracing the paths of muscle and bone with the tip of his tongue, finally circling Sherlock's bellybutton and following the fine, pale length of hair that disappeared into his trousers. John briefly rested his cheek against Sherlock's firm belly and looked. He could see Sherlock's shape outlined in the tight trousers and no doubt it was getting a bit uncomfortable for him.

He looked up at Sherlock, his hand hovering over the button on his trousers. "Do you want me to …"

"_Please_." A single-syllable word stretched out to three.

He popped the button and lowered the zip, instructing Sherlock to lift his hips so John could slide his trousers down and off, followed by his pants.

The word came back to him again. Glorious. Sherlock lay naked, save for the rumpled shirt still hanging open. His cock lay full and heavy against his stomach. He was gorgeous.

Sherlock lifted his head, looking up at John with the most vulnerable look John had ever seen. He was seeking approval. He smiled and touched Sherlock's cheek tenderly. "You are so beautiful. You are exquisite."

Reassured, Sherlock let his head fall back. "So are you," he murmured softly.

"Me? I haven't even taken a stitch off yet."

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head, closing his eyes with a little sigh. "You just are."

Normally John would interject with a self-deprecating joke, but he knew enough that this was not the time and it was not often that Sherlock offered up compliments of that calibre.

He stroked a hand over Sherlock's slender, pale thighs, then nudged them apart to tease the even silkier skin on the inside. His other hand hovered over Sherlock's waist. It was a bit unreal. This beautiful man, completely untouched by any hand except his own.

He traced a fingertip lightly up Sherlock's length and then finally wrapped his fingers around it, holding it possessively. _And he wants no other touch except mine. How many people get to have that?_

Sherlock let out a shuddery groan when taken in hand. John began to stroke him slowly, lightly at first, just learning the feel of him. Sherlock's eyes opened and his breathing was shaky. John took his hand away long enough to spit in it for some lubrication and set back to stroking him again, more firmly this time, teasing the pad of his thumb over the tip. Sherlock moaned, his hips pushing up hungrily into John's grip. He was so hard, so very aroused. _He's not going to last long at all. Probably a blessing in this case._

As that thought finished forming itself, Sherlock's breathing grew distressed, on the verge of hyperventilation, and he propped up clumsily on his elbows, looking at John, his eyes wild and unfocused.

"John …" he choked out the word, unable to articulate any further. John wasn't a terribly tech-savvy person, but if Sherlock's brain was a computer, then his motherboard was on the verge of frying. He wasn't used to feeling this much. He wasn't used to not being able to think with perfect logic and clarity. He was drowning.

"Sherlock." John's voice was calm and steady. It was the voice he often used when his patients became overwrought. He placed his free hand on Sherlock's chest, petting him soothingly, keeping a firm grip on his cock, but ceasing the stroking for a the moment. "Sherlock, listen to my voice. It's okay."

Sherlock inhaled a noisy breath through his nose. "John …" he said again, his voice almost a whine.

John finished the unspoken sentence, "No, I _do_ understand Sherlock. It's all right. You need to trust me. Just feel what you're feeling. You know this is just temporary. I will look after you. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded, collapsing back onto the pillow with a reluctant whimper.

John resumed stroking him and continued speaking if only so Sherlock could hear his voice and latch onto the sound. "You're bloody gorgeous right now, you know. I had no idea you were hiding this monster in your trousers. Good god, man. You're going to give me a complex."

He smiled when he heard a very faint chuckle. Appealing to Sherlock's ego never failed in any situation. His breathing began to even out a little and once again his hips started to roll up easily into John's grasp, a shuddery moan escaping him when John used his thumb to stroke slick precome over the head of his cock.

"That's good," John murmured. "You're leaking. You like my hand on your cock, don't you? You've wanted it for a while now."

He was answered with a shaky moan of assent.

John smiled. He was surprisingly turned on by this. He'd never seen Sherlock this way — so submissive and, well, just letting John have his way for once. Funny how this is what it took to get him to turn over the controls. Of course, that would probably start to change once Sherlock had a bit more experience and wanted to prove he was the best and … John caught himself wondering when the next time would be. _If there is a next time. I guess I'm hoping there's one. Fancy that._

Sherlock was half-whimpering, half-growling, digging his fingers into the blanket, hips pushing roughly up as John stroked him hard.

"You're close aren't you? So close." John's voice was velvety smooth. "I'm going to taste you now. And then I'm going to finish you off. And I want you to feel every second of it. And if you dare delete this from your hard drive, I will find a way to make you sorry."

In spite of Sherlock's state, John half-expected a joke of some kind. Some smart-arse comment at least, but Sherlock murmured a single word in response:

"Never."

John cupped Sherlock's testicles in his free hand. They were hot and tight, yet so soft. John fondled them in his hand simply to hear Sherlock sigh and to feel the shiver of pleasure reverberate through his body and then he lowered his head and let Sherlock slide deep into his mouth.

Sherlock gasped like a man surfacing after several minutes underwater and he moaned John's name desperately, pleading for deliverance.

John was good to his word. Two long pulls with his mouth and a swipe of his tongue over the tip and Sherlock came apart, the seizing up of his muscles giving John just enough warning to pull off and pump Sherlock through his orgasm. He wasn't averse to swallowing, but he wanted to watch. To see Sherlock's head flung back in ecstasy, his mouth formed into a perfect _O_ of astonishment, usually only reserved for when he made a major, case-cracking revelation. To hear the deep groans that started deep in his chest and bounced off the walls of the small bedroom.

To watch him shoot hard over his stomach and chest, the glistening spunk sliding over his milky-white skin in an obscene and beautiful tableau. When he was finally spent, John released him and reached for a tissue on the bedside table, wiping his own hand off and laying down next to Sherlock again. As an afterthought, though, he swiped his pinky finger over Sherlock's stomach and licked it clean. Just a taste. Not bad at all, actually.

Sherlock's head turned slowly at the touch and his gaze focused in time to see John tasting his semen. He opened his mouth to comment, but the words were still not at his disposal and he just settled for making a helpless face and murmuring John's name.

John chuckled softly and reached over to affectionately push sweat-dampened curls off Sherlock's forehead. "I rather like you like this. Finally found a way to make you shut up for a little while."

Sherlock scowled, but the hard line of his mouth went liquid when John kissed him. John kissed him for a long time, deep and slow, cradling Sherlock's cheek tenderly in his hand.

When the kiss finally broke, Sherlock's wits had mostly returned. He blinked and looked down at himself. "Christ, did I do that?"

"No, I had a good wank all over you while you were in la-la land," John said cheerfully.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Are you this charming to all your bedmates?"

"Contrary to what the porno movies would have us believe, many women aren't really that keen to be covered in a man's come. Shocking, that." John grabbed another tissue and began to gently swab the mess off Sherlock's torso. "It's a good look on you, though, I rather enjoy the sight of you looking so thoroughly debauched."

Sherlock chuckled very softly. "Is that so?"

"Truer words have never been spoken."

"A more hackneyed phrase has never been employed."

"Ah, see? Your acerbic wit is already up and running again. I'd say at about a 6."

Sherlock looked aghast. "A 6? That was at least an 8. To be at a 6 I'd have to be in a coma."

"You practically were a few minutes ago."

"Yes, well," Sherlock softened a bit and rolled to his side to face John, resting his head in the crook of his elbow, "that was … quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people usually say."

"Oh, _hush_."

John smirked. "You feel better now?"

"Quite. Is this how the rest of you live all the time? Being constantly driven by this urge?"

"If we weren't, the planet would be severely underpopulated."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Sherlock muttered.

John reached over and absently stroked Sherlock's hair. "Well, I reckon as long as you were still on it, I'd be all right."

Sherlock nodded, meeting John's gaze, and then looking down, his cheeks pinking just very slightly, but John didn't dare draw attention to it. "And maybe a bit of population padding to allow for murders."

"Yes, we can't forget the murders," John nodded his head in mock solemnity.

"Is it bad etiquette to excuse oneself to use the bathroom after a sexual encounter?"

"Depends. Are you planning to go fetal in the shower and cry?"

"No."

"Vomit?"

"No."

"Run away and never come back?"

"John, you're being preposterous. And where on earth would I go? All my work is here."

John waved his hand dismissively. "Go, then. You have my blessing."

Sherlock looked at John oddly, then decided to dismiss his flatmate's gibbering as exactly that. Gibbering. He paused, pressed a kiss to John's forehead, then sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing up gingerly, only wobbling slightly as he exited the room, naked save for black dress socks and the now extremely rumpled shirt hanging haphazardly off one narrow shoulder.

"You need to watch more films!" John called out.

"I have! Deleted! All of them. Rubbish. And stop ogling my bum!" Sherlock called back in reply before shutting the bathroom door.

"Says the one who started all this," John muttered to himself. "Ludicrous, what we're doing. Simply ludicrous."


	3. Incredible

_Sherlock_

Incredible. Sherlock looked at himself in the slightly warped bathroom mirror above the sink, then turned to regard his entire body in the full-length mirror with a focused, clinical interest. His pulse was still elevated and his knees still felt weak from the force of his orgasm. He was still a little vexed about his lack of stamina, but considering how long it had been since he'd let himself experience a sexual climax and that it was the first time being touched by John — by anyone, but particularly because it was John — it was understandable. He'd endeavour to do better the next time.

His hair was in disarray after thrashing about on the pillow. He could clearly see every spot where John had touched him. Kissed him. And the spots where now-dried traces of Sherlock's semen remained. He liked the thought of their respective DNA co-mingling on his skin. His body felt used, but in a good way. He hadn't expected this much satisfaction from allowing it to fulfil this particular biological imperative. He wished he had done it sooner — he had collected so much data already. It was simply incredible.

Though there had been that regrettable moment when he'd become afraid, though he would never admit it aloud to anyone, not even John. The irrational panic resulting from his mind clouding over and the inability to process and analyze thoughts at a normal rate. He'd never experienced the kind of slow, maddening arousal that John had brought about with his hands and mouth. When Sherlock was a teenager, in those desperate, almost shameful moments where he gave in to touching himself, he did it as quickly and efficiently as possible and even the pleasure of climax was marred with irritation at his body for demanding something he had no interest in giving.

But with John had been entirely different. At times the slow build had been excruciating, but at the same time he hadn't wanted it to end. He was already re-running the event through his mind for the second time since he entered the bathroom. He felt no shame or annoyance, which was a nice change. As long as John was agreeable to having these experiences with him, Sherlock saw no need to discontinue this exploration. But only if it was John. When Sherlock re-ran the events in his mind and tried to insert someone else other than John, he felt repulsed. Yes, the odds were definitely still stacked against him in terms of finding someone suitable. How fortunate that John Watson had come into his life. An expression, naturally, as Sherlock believed in neither fortune nor chance.

He turned his head to the side and was delighted to see the dark, mouth-shaped bruise forming on his neck. The shape of John's mouth. He would be sure to "forget" his scarf next time he saw Mycroft. It was less about boasting and more about traumatizing his brother. But then again, this would give Mycroft a whole new set of worries to obsess over and the Holmes brothers did enjoy their obsessions, curling around them possessively and cultivating them with the most dedicated of attentions. No, he wouldn't give Mycroft that gift. Let the bugger figure it out for himself. Because he would. He always did.

It even felt different when he took himself in hand as he went to relieve himself. John had held his cock in his hand. Taken it in his mouth. Claimed it as his own. This was one bit of control Sherlock did not mind ceding. John could have it. As often as he liked. It relieved Sherlock from having to worry about it and could therefore focus on more pressing matters. Yes, this was working out better than he'd hoped.

He washed his hands and further analyzed the foreign feeling he was experiencing. Belonging. He felt like he belonged to someone. Belonged somewhere, period.

All his life, Sherlock had been constantly reminded that he did not belong. Anywhere. Mummy always looked at him oddly, like she didn't know where he came from, despite the fact that she had given birth to him. She loved him, as a mother should love her son, but it had always felt that her love came with a string attached. Love "in spite of" instead of love "because of."

His schoolmates had never tired of reminding him that he did not belong. They reminded him with their taunts, and then when he learned to ignore them, with their fists. Even after he made it clear that he did not care (a self-preserving deception at first, but eventually he came to believe it wholeheartedly).

In uni, the taunting gave way to quiet shunning. He was always alone. Always destined to watch rather than participate. He didn't mind. He'd trained himself not to mind. His constant observation only served to hone his deductive skills. Leading him deeper into the Work.

Mycroft treated him like a never-ending problem that needed to be managed.

By adulthood, Sherlock had acquired a unique skill set that was unerringly accurate and in high demand, yet he was always made to feel like an intruder at Scotland Yard. Particularly on the crime scenes. The "freak," as Donovan had coined it from the first time she met him. _Give the freak his five minutes so we can get on with it._

He knew he didn't belong. What continued to baffle him, however, was why people seemed to consider it their personal duty to constantly remind him of that fact. As if he could forget. Boring little people with their boring little cruelties. But he had found a way to make his otherness work for him. To elevate him above the rest. To not belong meant that one was destined for a higher calling. The siren song of the Work.

People talked about John as if he tagged along behind Sherlock like a puppy, but in reality it was more like John had adopted Sherlock. He saw something in him that even Sherlock himself didn't entirely understand. _Why me, John? You say it's because I'm a genius, but everyone knows that. It's something more. What is it?_

But for once, the answer didn't really matter. In fact, he wasn't sure he wanted to know at all. With John, he felt he belonged. For the first time he knew what it felt like to be a part of something instead of observing it from the outside. John, the healer-soldier who had killed for Sherlock in their first days of acquaintance. People had come to expect to see them together. John validated his work. And even if John didn't understand Sherlock, he certainly accepted him. And now Sherlock knew his body would never feel the same again. It had ceased to be solely transport — now it would something he could give to John. It made sense — the doctor had already put himself in charge of its upkeep and maintenance, anyway.

He startled out of his thoughts, suddenly aware that he was chilled in the cool air of the bathroom. And John was waiting for him. Likely wondering how Sherlock had processed the whole event and whether he would return at all. Sherlock took a deep breath and opened the door, returning to John's room.

He hovered in the doorway. The doctor was reclining on the bed still, trying to affect a pose of nonchalance and failing miserably. Sherlock smirked slightly in a show of pity and walked to the bed, finally shedding the rumpled shirt hanging off his shoulders as he did so. He slipped under the covers to combat the chill and moved close to John, feeling the doctor tense then relax as Sherlock pulled him close.

"Sherlock," John murmured awkwardly, "you know, you don't have to —"

Sherlock silenced John's attempt to give him an out with a long kiss that rendered his friend mute with surprise. Sherlock touched his cheek and kissed John gently at the outside corners of his eyes, lined by laughter, experience, pain, and the unmerciful desert sun. His kind, knowing eyes.

John was dumbfounded by this show of tenderness, which was good, because it would soften Sherlock's next comment: "Now will you please take off that ridiculous jumper? You are positively _scratchy_ and I believe I will break out into a rash." He pouted minutely for added effect.

John chuckled. "All right, all right …" He pulled the woollen garment up over his head, where Sherlock plucked it off his arms and tossed it aside with a grunt of satisfaction. Sherlock then tugged at the covers, getting John to shift and slide under so they were not separated by the barrier of fabric.

Sherlock kissed John again and his fingers began to nimbly unbutton the other man's shirt. Data. John was a treasure trove of data and it was all there for him.

"Oh, Sherlock," John sighed in pleasure as Sherlock's lips and tongue began to explore his neck and collarbones, "what the bloody hell are we doing?"

Sherlock looked up, nonplussed, his pale eyes blinking at John in the dim light of the bedroom. "Being human, John," he said matter-of-factly. "I'm frequently told this is an area in which I am deficient. Isn't this what humans sometimes do when they care about each other?"

"Well," John said hesitantly, "yes, but —"

"Right, then it's settled," Sherlock interrupted. "Glad we cleared that up. Now kindly _shut up?_ You are being very distracting. As _usual_."

"As usual? I don't understand … hey … OI!"

Another sharp glare after the bite to his nipple and John quieted, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Well, surely this wasn't unexpected. Lack of experience in any area had never stopped Sherlock from taking the lead. He was already cataloguing, analyzing, and sorting data as he kissed, licked, and stroked his way down John's body. Aware he was mimicking when John had done to him earlier, but he wanted to experience it from the other side, and also to know what John reacted to versus what Sherlock had found most memorable. He could then cross-reference those results and apply them in future encounters for an even more satisfactory outcome.

"By the way, I plan to do a lot more than just ogle your bum."

Sherlock was going to nip him crossly again, but then he lifted his head, cocking it to the side in query. "What, wait, why? Oh, that. Yes. You should."

"You want that."

"Yes. I want all of it."

"_All_ of it? What does that entail?"

"Do I have to bite you again?"

"Yes, I mean, no, I mean, I rather enjoy that sort of thing, but just go ahead with what you were doing before."

"_Thank you."_ Sherlock's tone indicated that his suffering was never-ending.

The only sounds John made after that were soft murmurs and moans of pleasure. Sherlock catalogued each one. The power of sex was dizzying, even for him. John was laid out naked before him, and he quivered as Sherlock took him in hand, the doctor's chest heaving softly in anticipation. So this was it. This drove everything. Governments had fallen (or nearly fallen) for this; sonnets, plays, movies, telly programmes, operas, and pop songs were written in its honour; lies concocted; crimes committed; hearts broken; lives destroyed; the highest joys and the lowest sorrows. All for this. And Sherlock was finally beginning to understand why. Just a little bit. For once he wasn't entirely outside looking in.

_Incredible_, he thought as he let John's cock sink deeply into his hot, wet mouth, causing the other man to cry out softly in ecstasy, his fine, strong surgeon's hands burying themselves in Sherlock's hair and tugging urgently. _Simply incredible_.

**A/N: Thank you so much for the lovely comments/reviews! It's such a thrill and I'm so pleased you like it. This little story is basically complete, but a sequel of sorts is starting to brew, so we'll see where that goes.**

**Update: The sequel (in progress) is up. Titled "Reboot." I hope you enjoy it!**


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